You insist we aren’t blessed
until we lie awake
full of silence that presses our bodies
until we beg for hunger,
a thunderstorm, war.
Tonight, while you sleep,
I listen for pre-dawn birds to awaken.
The slam
of a car door takes the shape
of someone’s fist
thudding against the side of the house.
A broken window will follow
and we will fall to defending ourselves—
sleeping,
sleepless,
and intruder.
In my daydreams,
I do not beg for mercy.